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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917221">Psychogenic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaiaa/pseuds/Skaiaa'>Skaiaa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Darkiplier - Fandom, Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series), Youtube RPF, markiplier - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff, M/M, Revelations, nothing really the matter in this one, pretty calm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:36:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,879</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24917221</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaiaa/pseuds/Skaiaa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They were alike, cursed, mad. Nobody from that era who had entered the manor had left unscathed..Even if they didn’t realize it. How long had they been alive..?</p>
<p>Or, well, existing.</p>
<p>Neither of them were truly living at this point.</p>
<p>Yet..He was the only thing that made him feel anything. And in those moments of consciousness, where the other showed affable, intelligent traits..When he was honest to who was under the rose tint he had put over himself all those years prior..Honest to how much pain he could be in, honest to how lost he actually was, well, Dark wouldn’t want to ever lose him..Not again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Darkiplier/Wilford Warfstache, Mark Fischbach/Mark Fischbach, darkstache</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Psychogenic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dark could recall the memories of both of his lives, and little things could make him feel melancholy. He could recall things he hadn’t actually been around to witness. He understood how to do things the opposite gender did, and it confused a large amount of people when he’d just nod and continue on his day when Wilford would mention a memory, or a figment, dancing in his brain that he didn’t understand was plaguing him. He figured it was an overactive imagination. The person wasn't him. Those people weren’t ones he knew either. Dark just let him talk it out. Wilford usually had a lot to talk about. Even if the reporter never made sense to himself, he made sense to him.</p>
<p>The demon was currently laying on his bed, reading a book that had been gathering dust on his personal bookshelf, glasses on the bridge of his nose as he turned the page, jaw set as he read a particularly boring passage. </p>
<p>Huh, seems there was a reason he abandoned this book in the first place. </p>
<p>Leaning over his nightstand, Dark set the book aside, eyeing a picture resting on the flat of its back as he did so. He grabbed it carefully and eyed it, frowning before sighing bittersweetly and laying it back down.</p>
<p>It was a picture of Damien and the Colonel with their buddy Mark, all goofing off, probably from college. Dark still felt a twinge of anger every time he recalled Mark had made himself into a character to fuck with them, but it was dulled down as time went on. Was he still angry? Of course. But he wasn’t going to murder him in cold blood with no reason. Not that Mark wasn’t constantly giving him reasons. Antagonistic bastard.</p>
<p>At this point, he wasn’t sure who was who. Was he the creator..Or just a repurposed corpse? His own timeline blurred with the thought, so he often dropped it, unable to think it through too thoroughly.</p>
<p>Getting up, Dark eyed a sleeping lump resting on his couch, along with a floof of pink hair and dark mess of black waves resting on a plumped up cushion as the reporter slept peacefully, arms curled at his sides, knees locked, perched in a fetal position. He seemed peaceful.</p>
<p>The man stretched, body protesting his movements as it screamed out in agony, but he merely grunted before continuing on his way. He had finished his other novels, and his mind was needlessly empty, although it was never really quiet. He needed something to fill the void.</p>
<p>The demon looked to the reporter. Still as quiet as before, laying stagnant aside from his rising and falling chest as he slept. </p>
<p>Dark set a hand on his own chest, rolling his eyes at the color adorning his hands as he pulled back. A sad cyan around the edges. They all knew he was dead, yet sometimes..He still fought acceptance of such a well-known fact. </p>
<p>He still caught himself testing to see if he had a pulse if he got excited..A rare, but possible occasion.</p>
<p>He did not.</p>
<p>The man strolled through his room, finger dancing on the spines of old, dusty books, novels he hadn’t touched in years. Maybe he should revisit them. They used to be his favorites, back when he could feel.</p>
<p>He pulled his hand back, eyeing the dust before just leaving them behind, walking to the window. His room looked into inky blackness, or barren winter when he was alone. He never really cared to mask it with an illusion of something cheery, which his friend had reprimanded him for before turning his blackened background into a candy pink mess with psychedelic swirls of colors. That had made him furious, but he never really did anything about it. It was a good way to see how his..Friend was feeling. When he slept, the world around them remained dark. Was that his doing, perhaps, but at this point, he himself wasn’t actually sure; The candy colored writer had his own darkness, although rarely shown.</p>
<p>Maybe that’s why after years of yelling, and being pissed..They stayed near one another. Maybe it was the comfort of knowing they weren’t alone as they felt, even if they were as opposite as any person could actually be.</p>
<p>They both dealt with a pain Dark never truthfully would be able to explain. When he tried, his aura would switch colors constantly, the power trapped in them trying to speak their mind, but they were angry, noncooperative, and it made it a futile effort at best. The roaring in his own head was a minefield of emotions he had no use for..But to think of William..Wilford, he knew he could not broach the subject tactfully without sending him back into a tizzy.</p>
<p>At least, that’s the explanation he gave. No, he knew the reporter far too well to believe he wasn’t somehow aware of his past life. Wilford merely did not wish to speak of it, and he’d respect that. He was the same way.</p>
<p>The demon sat back on the bed, looking around, just sitting in the candlelight from an old flame on his dresser. The manor had...Changed so much, yet not at all. His wing was like stepping into a black and white film, pristine, aged, vintage...The rest of the house was like walking into a modern movie, complete with a front porch and a lovely yard that connected to a garage. It was a clash of worlds.</p>
<p>The reporter shifted slightly as he thought, the darkness outside lightening slightly as he mumbled to himself, still mostly asleep.</p>
<p>Dark watched him calmly. He wasn’t having a night terror, at least, although it was obvious his seating was exactly comfortable, from how the other shifted and turned in his sleep.</p>
<p>Wilford resting in his room, especially on older furniture, was as common as old maidens with needlework, or older men reading papers. It wasn’t anything new, yet, the manor treated it as such a strange thing for both of them to be together in a room, equating it to them merely tolerating one another. Such was not the case.</p>
<p>There was no other person Dark let share his bed. He was debating moving the other to it now, honestly. His pained expression at the obvious crick forming in his neck was rather swaying.</p>
<p>Maybe it was because Dark didn’t act as though he even liked the other in public. Maybe it was conveyed he wouldn’t appreciate his words at the head of the table through his lack of reaction during meetings...But the younger egos had it very, very wrong.</p>
<p>They were alike, cursed, mad. Nobody from that era who had entered the manor had left unscathed..Even if they didn’t realize it. How long had they been alive..?</p>
<p>Or, well, existing.</p>
<p>Neither of them were truly living at this point.</p>
<p>Yet..He was the only thing that made him feel anything. And in those moments of consciousness, where the other showed affable, intelligent traits..When he was honest to who was under the rose tint he had put over himself all those years prior..Honest to how much pain he could be in, honest to how lost he actually was, well, Dark wouldn’t want to ever lose him..Not again.</p>
<p>So, here he was, watching his sleeping partner in a world of unanswered crimes, debating bringing the lump into the covers.</p>
<p>After watching him shift tirelessly, he eventually did, picking him up and bringing him into the bed, covering him up, blinking when he was tugged next to him, ignoring the pain that shot up his chronic broken spine. Pinkened eyes stared up at him, bleary with sleep. “...Damien.”</p>
<p>One of those nights..?</p>
<p>Dark merely set a hand over them, voice calm. “Rest, William.”</p>
<p>Was he aware of his past right now?</p>
<p>His hand was moved, expression confused, but focused. “...Have you been up all night again?”</p>
<p>“It’s midafternoon.”</p>
<p>His hand was held, which made Dark blink again.</p>
<p>“..My head hurts, Dames.”</p>
<p>A thought in his head about his own chronic pain bounced around before being silenced.</p>
<p>“Rest, you’ll feel better when you wake again, Wil.”</p>
<p>He was tugged even closer, gritting his teeth as he adjusted himself to be at least a little comfortable. “You feel like death, so cold. Get warm.”</p>
<p>Dark didn’t have the heart to correct him, just rolling his eyes, settling back into place. “I can’t exactly make the fireplace warmer, William.”</p>
<p>“That’s quitter talk.”</p>
<p>“If you set my room on fire again, I’m throwing you in the pit.”</p>
<p>“Psh, Dames, it was an accident.”</p>
<p>His aura twitched a bit.</p>
<p>“Rest.”</p>
<p>He was wrapped around the pink haired man and let out a cry of pain before he could stop it, the other letting go before holding him more carefully. “Oh shit. Your back hurts, right..? I swear you’ve told me that before...Why you had the cane.”</p>
<p>Seems he wasn’t fully aware..But had..Some clarity.</p>
<p>The demon shifted until he could hold him without pain. “Will you rest if I rest with you?”</p>
<p>“Of course, Dames, when would I ever say no to that?”</p>
<p>Yeah..There’s no way he was fully aware right now…But he seemed to be thinking of the past instead of the present..That was also pretty common, sadly.</p>
<p>The reporter snuggled him, resting his head on his shoulder.</p>
<p>Dark wasn’t comfortable, but he wasn’t in pain, so that’s what mattered. “Sleep.”</p>
<p>Wilford smiled calmly. “...Your eyes are different, very blue. It’s odd, but looks nice.” </p>
<p>"You're delirious, William."</p>
<p>"Am not, hush."</p>
<p>Dark sighed and pet his hair, just sitting with him. He'd sleep eventually.</p>
<p>They laid in silence, the younger of the two still awake as Wilford went back to sleep, but not before saying one more thing after a half hour of silence aside from the crackling of flames from the fireplace.</p>
<p>“Goodnight, Dark.”</p>
<p>Before the other man could respond, the pink haired man was fast asleep, chest rising and falling, heartbeat steadying.</p>
<p>Dark stared up at the ceiling, just laying in silence for a while.</p>
<p>"...Goodnight, Wilford."</p>
<p>He eventually spoke, his own eyes lidded, but not tired. He hardly slept anymore, there wasn't a need with him being dead and all.</p>
<p>Tinted blue and red eyes occasionally looked to the sleeping man.</p>
<p>Wilford Warfstache..William. The colonel.</p>
<p>The man was an enigma...But that was okay. No one really ever knew when he was actually fine, out of his mind, or just playing the fool for a rouse...And he had every reason to act that way. They had been alive so long..For what? To suffer? He didn't blame him for losing track of who he was.</p>
<p>He had been through so much..He had to be exhausted of being so many people at this point.</p>
<p>The grayscaled being shut his eyes, resting them, even if he wouldn't fully sleep. </p>
<p>He was thankful they hadn't separated..Even after all those years in what seemed to be a never ending purgatory. </p>
<p>He didn't make sense in the slightest at times, and that was okay.</p>
<p>He didn't need to make sense to be understood, not with him.</p>
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